Just Another New Year old long since Remix
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: You can feel the blush creeping up your cheeks as he focuses again, his eyes  that deep, velvety green  flicking over you with a rueful glance, bleeding apology even as he shuts you out, shuts himself down - but instead of feeling rejected, all you can f


_**Just Another New Year (old long since)**_**  
****By ****PhoenixDragonDreamer**

**Author & URL of the original story****: ****old long since**** by ****alwaysenduphere****  
**

**Spoilers****: **_**Pre-series**_

**Warnings/Contains****: ****Language, Angst, OC POV**

**Wordcount**_**: **_**2521**

**A/N****: **_**Dedicated to my supportive and loving husband, Michael (thanks for the persistent encouragement, honey, lol!) And beta'd by my ever-awesome and endlessly patient **__**rinkle**__**. Thank you, sweetie! You are, as always, a bright star and true inspiration! This fic was written for 2010's Remix over at **__**kamikazeremix**__**. I was **_**very **_**lucky and got a beautiful fic to remix, that I hope I did justice to - the link to this delicious fiction is above. Leave her kisses for her Awesome! This was a fun (though hard) fic to remix!**_

**Disclaimer****:I do not own these awesome characters, alas. I am borrowing them for my own vile and evol purposes, but I promise to get them back to Kripke, Gamble & Co. in more or less the same condition I found them in. Story is my own, though the rest is not. No harm intended nor money made!**

* * *

It has been a long day so far. Not that you're saying that it has been a bad day, far from it - it has actually been a pretty good one, even with it being New Year's Eve and busy as hell.

It's been more steady than anything. You're aware that your feet hurt, though you never get time to dwell on it as you take the next order and the next one after that. You've got a headache thumping through your temples, and you somehow managed to twist your knee - but all these things are mild, almost background concerns as you laugh with one regular while pouring two shots for the next.

It has been a steady evening as the patrons take their time, no one wanting to miss the countdown because they are either passed out or have their head in the toilet, so it has been a night that has flowed without going into that headlong, tilting race towards disaster that you seem to get every other night of the year. So, it is not a bad night at all as nights go - and it is definitely better than you had imagined this New Year's would be.

Then again, the last New Year's Eve had been a _stellar_ example of why you should have become a hairdresser like your mother wanted.

You pour the next shot (wrinkling your nose slightly as the pungent odor of the half-blocked floor drain at your feet socks you in the face for the hundredth time tonight) so busy straining to hear Bob's latest tale of the horrors of being a taxi-cab driver and tallying his ever-growing tab, you almost miss _his_ entrance.

Or should it be His entrance?

He walks in like he knows where he is going, like he has been here a hundred times over (like Bob, or Stanley by the dart games, or Saul over near the pool tables) but you know for a fact you've never seen him before. You'd remember, number one - and number two, when you've worked as practically the _only_ bartender at the same place for three years, six days a week (even when sicker than a dog or too whipped to think), you get to know every face that enters those double doors and his is pretty much unforgettable.

You've had a few strangers wander in through the years, but none that stood out so well, even as they tried to blend in - and this guy had that 'blending' thing downpat. You almost missed Ginny's call for more Sam Adams at Table Three because you find yourself staring at this man, caught up in how easily he makes himself fit into the environment, even though his very presence blares out across the crowd as though he'd had someone announce his arrival over a megaphone. You have to blink a few more times to get yourself pulled back together, but it takes a couple more seconds than you thought it would, mind and body going on autopilot as you pour the three drafts for Ginny's table. You take two more orders and fill them before steeling yourself to face the stranger, a sudden, uncharacteristic nervousness making your hands shake, even as your voice remains ever steady, polite - apologies for the delay tumbling from your lips followed by a quick, 'So what would you like handsome?'

And god, could you be more _obvious_?

His eyes twinkle at you, but he lets the comment pass, mouth quirking in wry amusement as if the two of you had just shared a private joke. His voice is as deep and smooth as well-aged bourbon, his tone light even as he waves off your apologies for keeping him waiting, eyes almost absent, far from this bar, from you as he orders a boilermaker, missing the show as you stand there gawping at him like some ignorant yokel. You can feel the blush creeping up your cheeks as he focuses again, his eyes (that deep, velvety green) flicking over you with a rueful glance, bleeding apology even as he shuts you out, shuts himself down - but instead of feeling rejected, all you can feel is an endless, almost awed melancholy that shivers down your spine and back up to weigh like a shadowed cloak upon your shoulders.

"Sorry," he husks, an answering blush creeping over his own cheeks. "Force of habit - I'm sorry there, Miss -?"

"Melanie," you supply, already turning to get his drinks when you feel a light brush of warmth against your arm. You look down almost instinctively, another bite of that odd sadness welling in your belly when he withdraws like he has been burned, a quick glance to his face telling you everything and nothing when he keeps his eyes downcast, sorrow curling from the edges of his mouth.

"Sorry, Melanie, I didn't mean anything by that, I -"

"It's okay," you manage to deflect, your voice eerily light even as you have to force air through the lump in your throat - though whether it is from disappointment, sadness or relief you aren't really sure. "I'll be sure not to spit in your whiskey for that."

He laughs then, a surprised bark that equals thank you and appreciation all at once. You toss a grin at him before moving away to get his order, your focus on him, only him - the noise, press and _thereness_ of the surrounding crowd nothing but a dim, rowdy blur. He accepts his drink a few moments later, his expressive face opening to spill gratitude your way (though for what you are not exactly sure), his eyes lighting up, the press of his lips less grim and you answer his smile with one of your own, your tone flippant as you tell him you'll be back to give him his next round when he is ready.

The next hour passes too quickly, even though you feel each shift and tick of the minute hand. The calls for orders become nothing but one long stream of audial nonsense, your ears tuned for one voice and one voice only. Your eyes always finding him even as the wave of bodies jostle for position along the length of the bar. You notice how he shrinks and expands with the ebb of people around him and you find yourself filled with almost childish awe as no one seems to even see him, their eyes sliding right over him as if he does not exist, even as they lean away from his presence so they do not crush him against the polished length of aged mahogany that the main bar is comprised of.

You listen, you watch and you wait - the fog of voices, smells and touch weaving in and around the solid thereness of Him, so much smoke against the dash of your senses as business picks up for a tangled few minutes, every patron wanting to get their last orders in before the New Year is made official, leaving you shifting from one to the next without so much as a breath in between.

At one point you look over, eyes catching on him even as you fill two orders at once, fascinated as he flexes his hand, revealing the shiny, discoloration that webs out across the expanse of palm and wrist, light from the dim overhead catching on it and throwing the light back, reflecting the pain etched into his skin. You almost flinch when you see the burn (for that is exactly what it is) splashed across the smooth stretch of his flesh, your brain dancing with the semi-sleepy notion that you might have (_somehow_) actually burned him earlier when he touched your arm, even as you dismiss that all at once as being silly, frivolous. He studies the pull of his own skin and you wince in sympathy, choosing not to comment on it when you deliver his last drink of the old year, the twisted melting of flesh looking like it had made itself home quite a few days ago - and quite viciously too.

He nods his thanks absently, those eyes never quite resting near you as he seems to withdraw all over again, his body alert though his thoughts seem distant, barely bringing himself to focus on the TV overhead as the countdown to the balldrop gears up around him, the whole bar standing, chanting, whooping as it gets nearer and nearer to that glittery, frontier of promise known as the New Year. You feel buoyed by the same promise they all cling so desperately to, your heart flooding with warmth and laughter for these people, known and one unknown, even as you are weighted by the borrowed sadness coming from your far left, the touch of it against your spirit like a chill across the ocean before dawn and you find yourself breathing it in the same way. Deep, steady, filling yourself up with it before you blow it away from you with each breath.

He will be leaving soon - and maybe not too long after the ball actually drops, you can feel it across that silvery thread of knowing that sometimes collects around you like a delicate strand of silk. Sometimes it is a thin whisper, other times a crystalline shout. With him it is a throbbing hum that beats in your throat and drowns out all else with that fiery sob of wishing...just one name amongst a tangled weave of thoughts.

_**Sam**_.

But that name, that _knowing_ doesn't matter in the end, as he is just a stranger, making his strange way through the home you have always known, heading somewhere you have never been, to do things you may never dream of. Of this, you are sure, you can 'lay money on it' as your Pa used to say.

You know this, him, the drowning quagmire of his head as sure as you know your own name and while you feel slightly sad that you will not get to know him better, either with a slow smile, chaste kiss, light conversation or that long, dreamy waking pressed against the warmth of his skin - you feel relieved as well. His presence, his very being is heavy and disturbing - almost overwhelming in its electrical thereness, his soul a dark pressure against the shadow-light shift of the other patrons, his restlessness and instability leaking out amongst his fellow men with each intake of breath and blink of those eyes.

But that is neither here nor there as the bar explodes with sudden sound and movement, leaving you blinking your stunned surprise into the close warmth of your work area, knife sharp awareness of your surroundings and the passage of time leaving you gasping for breath, everything too bright, too loud - just...too much for a moment as you try to regain your footing outside the web of Other that you have been caught in for the past hour and a half. Somehow, some way - one or the other of you twisted free - but you are left unsure to which one of you plucked the first string to vibrate your consciousness apart.

You find a way to breathe through it, regain your sense of self as people chatter, catcall, laugh and whisper around you, nodding almost dazedly when some of your more regular-regulars shout boisterous greetings and well-wishes towards your direction. None of them seem to notice how unbalanced you are at the moment, your every sense straining towards the numb knowing you were awash in mere seconds ago, your innate understanding and connection to Him now lost and vague amongst the collection of your other senses, your mind dismissing the last 95 minutes as nothing but whim and exhaustion after all, your feet, spine and aching eyes backing up this assessment with throbbing testaments of their own.

You reach up to rub at your left temple, your skin too tight as you feel someone's-his-the Other's eyes on you, the fading sense of connection telling you who it is even as your eyes meet across the cluttered chaos around you, time stilling for such a fleeting span of seconds, but it was enough - it would have to be.

You could go and offer him another drink - on the house even, you have more than enough cash jamming the till to make that possible. You could offer him a shoulder and a sympathetic ear. You could offer him a friend and a place to lay his head, maybe even more than just friendship, if it came to that.

But you never will.

You know, you understand, you can feel that this is not what he needs, (at least, not tonight anyway) and while that makes you sad that you will miss that opportunity to deepen that connection you can practically see (and you know he can at least vaguely 'feel') you are almost glad to let it slip through your fingers, too. His future, his _fate_ is far heavier and darker than even you can comprehend and while you wish to ease that burden, you also know it will drive him down the long stretch of years. To remove those pains, to soothe the rough edges and heartbreaks away is to deny him his armor, to dent his destiny - and that is not your call to make.

It never is.

He goes to stand, his soul rebuilding walls that have cracked -

(_that he has let you see through_)

- covering that all important, blaze of light that lays at the center -

(_Sam_)

- his jacket already slung around his shoulders, those eyes bright and open as he lays a knowing wink at you, head tipped to nod at the cash on the table. You know he would have normally paid with a credit card -

(_D. Hasselhoff, P. McGillicuddy_)

- but not for you, not today - and that thought almost makes you chuckle in roguish conspiracy.

You cross to him, but stop halfway there, small smile tugging the corners of your own mouth as he lays two Tylenol on the table just over the two twenties there (more than enough for a tip besides), tapping his own left temple and pretending to crick his back as he slides his wallet back into his pocket, answering smile so bright and beautiful above the shadows that threaten to smother him.

"Thanks for the drinks, Mel," knowing somehow, that you hate that nickname, but making it a special joke between the two of you. "And Happy New Year."

It's just a low hum of sound, it shouldn't be audible across the packed din of the Auld Lang Syne, but you can hear it as clearly as if he whispered it, warm, husky and intimate, into the fragile shell of your ear. You nod and reply, even as he turns to walk away - but you know he hears you, even as the doors swallow him back into the strange world from which he came.

"And same to you...Dean Winchester."


End file.
